Treacherous Sorrow
by Art-Over-Matter
Summary: Anthony's life has been destroyed, and he's determined to get revenge. Ian tries to stop him, but Anthony might be willing to hurt even his best friend in order to get his vengeance... Rated T for mild gore and character death.


Anthony slid the magazine into place at the bottom of the pistol and pulled the top to put a bullet in the chamber. He'd never used this pistol before, but he didn't care. He'd never really used _any _pistol before, particularly not with the intent to shoot another person, but again, he didn't care.

He needed revenge.

He knew where he'd find her. There was just one small glitch in his nonexistent plan.

Its name was Ian Hecox.

"Anthony, what are you doing?" Ian demanded, standing up and walking to the doorway, where Anthony had just entered.

Anthony stared Ian down expressionlessly. "I'm going to kill her."

"No! No, you're not." Ian made a grab for the pistol in Anthony's hand, but the taller man just stepped aside. "Anthony, you're not thinking straight. You can't kill another person! Think about what that will do to your life!"

Anthony grabbed Ian by the front of his shirt and slammed him up against the wall, snarling, "My life is already ruined, Ian Hecox. My entire family is dead. Do you know what that feels like?"

Ian actually looked scared. "No. No, Anthony, I don't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry this had to happen, just don't blame her—"

"_How is this not her fault?!_" Anthony roared at him, releasing him with a shove to his chest.

"It is!" Ian pleaded. "It is her fault, I admit it, but just give her a second chance, you can't do this—"

Ian faded into nonexistence when Anthony saw her. She was there. Right across the room from him. The woman who had killed his mother, father, brothers, and stepsister. All of them. Anthony knew she'd been under the influence of both alcohol and drugs at the time. He didn't care.

He raised the pistol and fired at her twice. She ducked out of the way, letting out a scream of fear.

"Anthony Padilla!" Ian growled, stepping in front of him. "Stop it! You—can't—do this!"

"I can, Ian, and I will. Get out of my way."

She was trying to flee, but Anthony was in front of the only doorway and the basement window was too small for her to fit through. Still, Ian was in the way, and Anthony couldn't get a clear shot at her.

"Ian, I'm warning you. I will shoot."

"No, you won't," Ian said, backing up until he touched her, then pushing her gently against the wall and putting his arms out to either side of her. His eyes were glistening with tears.

"Why are you protecting her, Ian? Why do you still care?"

"Because I'm not you, Anthony! Because I'm still thinking!"

She was cowering behind Ian, not trying to stop him from putting himself in danger for her. Weak, miserable coward.

"Ian. Hecox." His voice was deadly cool now. "Get out of the way, or I'm going to shoot you."

"You couldn't shoot me, Anthony…." He searched Anthony's eyes. "Could you?"

"I will if I have to. I'm going to kill her, Ian. There's nothing you can do."

It was the woman who spoke. "I didn't know what I was doing." Her voice was small and pathetic. "I was drunk and stoned and I thought—I didn't think they would die…."

The rage that rolled through Anthony was so strong he didn't even know how to cope with it.

"Move! Now!" he spat at his used-to-be best friend. Anthony was shaking and he didn't really know why.

"Anthony, please don't do this," Ian pleaded. There were tears running down his cheeks now.

Anthony pulled the trigger. A gunshot burst throughout the basement, echoing like a grenade explosion. Ian's expression glazed over and he looked down at himself. At the flower of blood blossoming through his shirt. He fell to his knees.

The shot that had hit Ian's chest had gone straight through him and hit Anthony's real target just below her collarbone. Her face was contorted with pain, her hands grasping at the blood flowing out of her.

Anthony fired again, twice. One shot hit her in the chest, the other in the head. She collapsed sideways in a bloody heap.

Anthony stared at the gore-smeared wall where she had been standing. He was shaking hard now, so hard he could barely keep on his feet. The pistol slipped from his hand and thudded onto the carpet floor.

He sat down hard as his legs gave out underneath him. Ian was curled up in front of him, almost in a fetal position, his hands pressed to his chest.

"Ian," Anthony said vaguely, getting no response from the wounded man. He edged closer to Ian and rolled him carefully onto his back. Ian sucked in a short breath through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly it looked painful.

_What have I done? Oh God. Oh Lord, no. What have I done?_

He cupped the back of Ian's head in his left hand and put his other hand on Ian's blood-soaked chest. He was still shuddering like a paper-thin leaf in a windstorm.

Ian eyelids fluttered open and he found Anthony's distraught face. His sea blue eyes were full of betrayal and pain and anger. "Get away from me," he coughed weakly, his voice full of spite.

"Ian, no. No, no, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm gonna g-get help, okay?"

Ian sneered a little bit. "It's too late, Anthony. You think you can turn this around? It's over."

Anthony shook his head, unable to speak through the sobs that were rising to his throat. How could he have done this? What was wrong with him?

"Anthony," Ian said, his weak voice no longer holding any anger. He looked terrified. "I'm going to die."

As if Anthony didn't already know that. He leaned over and hugged Ian to his chest as he started to sob. "I'm s-so sorry. I couldn't think….I'm sorry, Ian. D-don't leave me here. Ian?"

No reply. Ian's eyes were staring over Anthony's shoulder, sightless. His mouth was slightly open and full of blood. He was no longer breathing.

"No! Ian, don't leave me! You're the only thing I have left! No, Ian, I love you—I'm sorry…." His sentence deteriorated into sobs. He could feel Ian's blood soaking through his shirt, sticking to his skin.

He knew that someone would have called the police upon hearing the gunshots. The police would come and arrest Anthony, he would be charged with murder—he would plead guilty—and be sent to prison, for how long, he didn't know. He didn't care. Everyone he cared about had been taken from him, except one person, whose life he had taken himself. He didn't care because he had nothing left to live for. ●


End file.
